


Now Is The Hour

by betterprepared



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Alison POV, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Lots of Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Soft Ghost Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-01 17:57:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20262187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betterprepared/pseuds/betterprepared
Summary: “It’s just that… The Captain's friend was rather old you see, far and away one of the oldest men I’ve ever seen,” Julian huffed an uneasy sigh, “And he’s not arrived today. It’s been 80 odd years, and today’s the first Death Day he’s missed,”A horrible feeling of dread began to settle in Alison's gut.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I watched Pat's scene with his family and thought "How can I make this twice as painful?"

It had been a long day for Alison and Mike.

Initially, their weekends at The Button House had consisted of sleeping till noon, eating an excess of carbs, and watching re-runs of Doctor Who on TV – more often than not dressed in pyjamas all day, much to Fanny’s disapproval.

Now though, Alison could hardly remember the last time she and Mike had a Saturday to themselves. What with them now working full time to pay the bills, it left the house renovations to their precious weekends off and though the couple had been ridiculously lucky to receive the house free of charge, Alison couldn’t help but find the whole thing rather exhausting. 

“Right,” Mike announced impatiently, swatting his hand through the air to remove the wallpaper he had inadvertently pasted to his hand, “That’s it- I’m over it. I’m over it, and I’m done for the day-“ he paused as he tried to use his other hand to pull of the vigilant wallpaper, only for the excess paste to smear across his free fingers.

Mike looked incredulously at his two hands for a moment, both now smothered in thick wallpaper paste. He turned to Alison in utter disbelief, “I’m losing my mind,” he said, “I’m actually losing my mind,”

Alison glanced up from the chest of drawers she was glossing and huffed a laugh at her husband. “You’re such an idiot,” she said fondly, reaching for her painting washcloth and tossing it across the room, “Clean it off before it dries,” 

Mike caught it mid-air, wincing as the wet cloth hit his hand with a squelch, “I’m being personally attacked by wallpaper,” he exclaimed, as he set to work on his hands, “_Wallpaper_. Should’ve just gone with paint instead,”

“Wallpaper’s fancier,” Alison replied, setting back to the work on the drawers, “Or at least, that’s what Fanny said,”

“Listen,” Mike suggested, finally peeling away the now rather soggy wallpaper from his hands, “Why don’t we just take this evening to relax. It’s getting dark anyway – and we’ve been working non-stop these past few weeks,”

“I know,” Alison insisted, “But the sooner we get everything done the sooner we can open this place,” 

“Alison,” Mike groaned, “We need a break,” he paused for a moment before saying, “You know what I dreamt of last night?” 

Alison’s paintbrush stilled, “What?” she said suspiciously, 

“Cleaning the grout out of the downstairs bathroom,” 

Despite her wariness, Alison cracked a smile, “I’ve been dreaming about upholstering the carpet,” she admitted, turning to face her husband as the paintbrush dropped to her side.

“It’s taking over our lives babe,” Mike said as he crossed the room, “Let’s just take tonight to rest. We’ve not had a Doctor Who marathon in like… two months,”

Alison sighed in resignation. He certainly wasn’t wrong, “Go on then,” she said, “I’m pretty sure we’ve got a jar of pasta bake in the cupboard anyway; it’s too good to eat whilst on the go,” 

Mike gave a cheer, pulling her into a tight hug, “Good call,” he said happily, “I’ll get the oven on and grab a bottle of Pinot from the cellar,” 

“I can get it if you want,” Alison offered, pulling back, “I haven’t checked in on the plague lot in ages,” 

Mike sniffed, “Nah, s’alright,” he said casually, “You should probably go and change your jumper anyway,”

Alison raised her eyebrows in question.

“It uh- may have some wallpaper paste on it,” 

-

‘Some wallpaper paste’ turned out to be two large Mike-shaped handprints on the back of Alison’s second favourite jumper. He should be thankful, Alison thought with a smile, that she found his clumsiness so endearing.

Tossing the offending jumper into the wash basket, Alison crossed the room towards the door, shrugging on her dressing gown as she went. She wondered distantly whether there was any garlic bread in the freezer, opening her bedroom door to go and find out- 

“Ah! Alison!” Julian crowed, standing so close to the doorway that Alison near walked straight through him.

“Jesus!” she jerked back in surprise, hitting her elbow on the door frame with a dull thud. Thoughts of garlic bread vanished in an instant, being replaced with a familiar frustration that the ghosts had a knack for bringing out in her, “Julian you can’t surprise me like that!” 

“Well it’s not like I can give a warning, is it?” the ghost retorted, frowning as Alison rubbed her stinging elbow.

She closed her eyes in silent exasperation, “If you’ve come for the Netflix password, I’ve told you – you can’t spoil The Good Place for Pat and not expect consequences,” 

“I’m not here for that actually,” Julian sniffed, “And besides – it’s his own fault for taking so long to start watching it-“

“Julian,” Alison interrupted tiredly, “What do you want?” 

His mouth snapped shut at her question, lips pressed tightly together as he straightened his jacket. If she didn’t know any better, Alison would have said he looked a little nervous.

“I'm here about The Captain,” he eventually admitted, “I need your help,” 

Alison frowned, “Why? What’s happened?” 

“Well…“ Julian’s voice ran dry, and he reached up to rub the back of his neck, “It’s his Death Day today, you see," 

“Oh God,” she groaned, feeling a pang of guilt at the news, “Why didn’t he tell me? I would’ve found him a documentary on tanks or something,” 

Julian huffed a sigh, “To be honest, it’s not usually an issue,” he said, “In fact, it’s the one day of the year when he’s actually in a good mood,” 

The unspoken ‘But' lingered ominously in the air as the ghost stopped short.

“Usually?” she asked cautiously, watching as Julian took a moment to plan his words, “What’s different this year?”

Well,” Julian swallowed thickly, “Every year on his Death Day, a bloke comes to pay his respects. According to Robin and the older lot, he’s been coming since old Cap snuffed it,” he explained, “I always thought he was a few sandwiches short of a picnic, a grown man sitting and talking to thin air for a few hours; but The Captain would always sit with him - it put him in a good mood for the day,” 

Alison began to feel a little uneasy as Julian continued.

“It’s just that… the man was rather old you see, far and away one of the oldest men I’ve ever seen,” he huffed an uneasy sigh, “And he’s not arrived today. It’s been 80 odd years, and today’s the first Death Day he’s missed,” 

Julian stalled, watching to seeing if she was catching his drift. Alison truly, truly hoped he was not implying what she thought he was implying.

“The others think he’s just running behind schedule. But it’s getting late in the day Alison and… well, I’m a realist,”

Alison blinked as the words sunk in, “Surely not,” she replied, a horrible feeling of dread beginning to settle in her chest, “Surely,” 

“The sun’s starting to set,” Julian reminded her, “And I’ve never seen the man here any later than three, max,” 

She exhaled slowly. Julian certainly had a point. “What do we do?” she asked him, “Surely you lot have dealt with these things before?”

Julian reached up to scratch his neck, “Well… I was thinking you could go and see if he’s alright,” he said nonchalantly,

Alison stared at him incredulously, “Are you joking?”

“Well I can’t do it, I’m not exactly the most empathetic sod am I?”

“Oh, and I am?”

“Look,” Julian said, “The others won’t do it because they’re convinced I’m barking up the wrong tree. And I can’t do it because, quite frankly Alison, I have a reputation to hold,” 

Alison couldn’t believe what she was hearing, “That’s ridiculous! What would I even say to him?”

“Just ask him if he’s alright,” Julian said, “Maybe try and coax him back inside,” 

“I- Julian-!” she exclaimed, at a loss of what to say. She groaned at her lack of retorts, pressing her palms to her eyes in frustration, “Why is he outside?” she asked, barely restraining the strain in her tone. 

Julian huffed a sigh, dragging a hand over his face, “Because the poor bastard’s waiting for him,” he said miserably. 

Alison’s hands dropped to her sides. Julian gave her a tight, sad smile. 

At that, she knew she didn't have much of a choice.

“Let me grab my coat,” she muttered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for minor character death and descriptions of grief x

The Captain was sat exactly where Julian said he would be, on a small bench around the side of the house. It was made of a curved iron, rusted with age, and surrounded with unkempt shrubs. Alison had intended to take the thing to the tip when they had first moved in, but neither she nor Mike had ever gotten around to it. 

He was sat stock still, back rigid and hands resting on his knees. Even from her distance, Alison was sure she could see the tension in his stature, coiled in wait, ready to spring the moment a familiar figure crested the hill.

Sinking her teeth into the flesh of her lip, she stood silently and watched as the cold April rain passed straight through The Captain’s ghostly form and splashed onto the bench below. Alison clutched tighter to her umbrella and willed herself to move forward, wishing beyond anything that Mike was handling this instead.

“I would if I could, but I can’t even see him Al,” Mike had said when she’d told him, “I know you hate talking about this stuff, but just let him know you’re there if he needs you. And I’ll be right here with a glass of wine for when you get back,”

Alison's lack of conviction must have shown on her face, as Mike had crossed the hall and pulled her into his arms. She’d sunk into the warmth easily, the umbrella in her hand falling to the side.

“You, more than anyone, must know how he’s feeling right now,” he’d said softly into her hair, “Having someone who understands would be a big help, I’m sure,” 

Theoretically, he was right. At least, it was what Alison’s grievance councillor had also told her all those years ago. But Alison had known then, as she knew now, that she was not a person to comfortably give or receive sympathy. She had experienced grief and upset so many times in her twenty-seven years that seeing it in others just made her uncomfortable. 

Even so, she couldn’t help the faint tug of sympathy, pulling her forward towards the bench. At least, a small voice of reason told her, she could shield him from the rain for a while.

“Hello Captain,” she said quietly on approach, a little self-conscious of the wariness in her voice.

The Captain turned his head sharply at her greeting – on edge, Alison noted, just as she had thought he would be. His eyes flickered with something she couldn’t name, then settled to their usual, unreadable nature. 

“Hello Alison,” he responded smartly as he rolled his shoulders back and sat straighter in his seat, “Finished with that ghastly wallpaper job then?”

Alison smiled weakly as she came to a stop by the bench. His normalcy made her feel uneasy. “We gave up actually,” she admitted, “Kept making a mess of things,”

The Captain gave a knowing hum and turned back to face the grounds.

After a moment’s pause, Alison took a step and sat rather awkwardly at The Captain’s side, perching precariously of the wet bench and making sure the umbrella covered them both from the rain. The ghost made no acknowledgement. Alison wondered if he knew why she had come to sit with him. 

“I heard it was your Death Day today,” she began, insides coiling at the faux nonchalance in her voice, “You should have said. I would have found you a new documentary to watch – Netflix always has something new,”

The Captain showed little response in his face, “Nonsense. I’ve gone several decades without acknowledgement of it, and I don’t expect that to change now,” he paused before speaking again, his voice only a mutter this time, “I have plans anyhow,” 

The two fell into silence as Alison worked up the courage to bring up the looming topic. The rain pattered loudly on the umbrella above their heads. 

“Is this the man that Julian was telling me about?” she asked hesitantly, watching as the Captain’s jaw shifted in response.

“I knew he would say something to you,” the Captain said, a significant edge to his tone, “He likes nothing more than finding ways to irritate me- I should have known he’d find a way to interrupt my Death Day eventually,”

“To be honest Captain, I think he’s just worried about you,” Alison said gently, 

The ghost turned slowly to face her, “And why would he need to worry?”

Alison opened her mouth to speak before closing it again, words sticking in her throat. The Captain’s eyes were hard, as though he were daring her to admit what she and Julian had become so sure of.

Her gaze wavered guiltily. It said everything.

“It’s because he’s late, isn’t it?” the Captain snapped, “That’s why!”

Alison let out a careful breath, “Captain-“

“A man can be late, you know!” he exclaimed angrily, “Julian had no right to say anything to you!”

“He just didn’t like the thought of you being out here by yourself for so long, especially if…“ Alison’s voice faltered. The Captain’s face was like thunder.

“If he’s dead, yes?” he demanded, “You’re worried about a stupid old fool waiting in the rain for a dead man,”

Alison cringed at his bluntness. “We just want to make sure that you’re ok,” she replied feebly, “I can’t imagine-“

“Well luckily for you Alison, you don’t need to,” the Captain interrupted, turning away and resuming his rigid position, “He’s alive and well and on his way,” 

Alison’s gaze flickered to the cloudy horizon, the inky darkness of the evening beginning to creep over the hills. She hoped the Captain was right, but somehow, she couldn’t quite convince herself so.

“I would appreciate it,” he muttered frostily, “If you would leave me alone. I don’t want you here when he arrives,” 

She looked helplessly to the ghost, “I can keep you company till he gets here, keep you out of the rain-“

“Go,”

The Captain’s voice was firm. 

Alison pressed her lips together, at a loss for what to say. Mike’s advice whispered across the back of her mind – not to push, never to push. She wished he were here with her. 

“I’ll go,” she relented in a cautious quiet, “But if you need anything, _please_ come and fetch me,”

The Captain opened his mouth to argue, an incredulous look contorting his face, but Alison rushed in first, “I would say the same to any of the others,” she interrupted, “I can’t imagine a Death Day being very enjoyable, even if you do get to spend it with your friend,”

The ghost took a moment to consider her gesture before speaking, “Fine,” he said stiffly, “But I doubt I will be taking you up on the offer,”

“Ok,” Alison replied, getting to her feet, “That’s ok,” 

She turned to face him in farewell. He had not changed in stature, but there was a new desperation in his face that had not been there before. She took a step back, as though the physical movement would stop her from saying anything further.

“Have a good evening, Captain,” she muttered, stomach twisting in guilt at her helplessness to the situation. 

The ghost gave a curt nod, barely any acknowledgement at all, and Alison turned away. 

Of all the ghosts, the Captain was probably the one who liked her least, and though she would certainly deny it to anyone who asked, the feeling was, as a result, assuredly mutual. 

Yet even so, Alison’s throat tightened with a horrible misery as she walked away. The Captain’s situation was all too familiar, and she couldn’t help but ache with grief for the ghost sitting in her wake, waiting in the rain for a man who would likely never arrive.

-

When she got back into the house, Mike took one look at Alison’s face and jumped to action. In minutes he had taken her coat, manoeuvred her into the living room, and pushed a large glass of wine into her hands. 

To his credit, he always had a knack to making Alison feel better; with pasta bake filling her Gran’s best china bowls, Doctor Who playing softly on the TV, and thick blankets covering the two. The relaxation and comfort were something she had needed for a while, even more so after her conversation with The Captain.

Mike even held her in his arms as she wiped, embarrassed, at tears she rarely shed, and gave comforting words to questions that had only difficult answers. 

_What if Julian’s right? What if The Captain’s just in complete denial? How do I tell him? What do I do?_

The ghosts, mercifully, left the pair alone. 

The Captain stayed away too, undoubtedly still waiting outside in the unwavering rain. 

By nine fifty, when the couple were cleaning the dishes and getting ready to head upstairs, he was nowhere to be seen.

Even by ten thirty when Mike was snoring softly beside her in their bed, the ghost had still not made an appearance. 

After several hours of lying awake in worry and talking herself into, and then out of, checking on The Captain again, Alison had finally drifted into a fitful sleep. It was long past midnight when a voice woke her from the bottom of the bed.

“Alison?” came the hushed whisper, “Are you awake?”

Alison rolled groggily onto her back, still half asleep. 

“Alison?”

She hummed in response and propped herself onto her elbows, squinting in the darkness.

The Captain took a heavy breath as she fixed her bleary eyes on him. He was stood at the end of the bed, only just lit by the moonlight seeping through the crack in the curtains. 

Formal as ever, his stature looked unshakable. But his fingers were trembling, tapping anxiously against the handle of his swagger stick, and his face…well. He looked as if he were going to be sick. 

“Are you alright?” Alison whispered, her comforting voice a stark contrast to the horrible dread beginning to settle in her bones. 

The Captain swallowed, “He’s not arrived,” he muttered, “And I-“ his words tailed off as though his nerves would not let him speak them aloud. He tried again. “I was wondering if you could use that machine of yours to see if he’s alright. Vicky Pedia him,”

Alison hoped he could not see her crestfallen face in the dark. He was making a solid suggestion, but what, she thought, would she do if they found out The Captain’s friend had passed? What if Google, or Vicky Pedia for that matter, didn’t tell them anything at all?

“I could try,” she said uneasily, at a loss to say anything else.

“Please,” 

Careful not to wake Mike, Alison slid out from under the covers and stood, the wood floor cold under her feet. She wished again that he could join her, desperately so. It was all too familiar for her, and far too painful. 

But one look at The Captain’s humiliated face told her that it would be a selfish thing to do. He was embarrassed enough to seek help from her, let alone her husband.

Alison pulled her laptop from its place underneath her bed and straightened, turning to The Captain with what she hoped was a reassuring look. “Let’s go and find somewhere a little more private,” she said in a hushed voice, nodding towards a snoring Mike. 

The Captain nodded silently in response and followed her as she headed for the door.

Alison couldn’t remember ever knowing the Captain to maintain a silence, let alone listen to her instruction. She tried, and consequently failed, not to think too much into it. 

Though The Captain’s footsteps were silent, Alison’s echoed against the high ceilings as the pair strode down the hallway and towards the staircase. It felt horribly to Alison like a death march, as though she was leading The Captain to a fate that he would never recover from. 

_He could be alive,_ she told herself as they descended the stairs, _You don’t know that he’s dead._

_But aren’t they always?_ A thought came from the darkness, leaving Alison awash with a sickly dread.

Thankfully, the living room was empty, with no ghost in sight. Even with the lights turned on, the room felt entirely isolated from the rest of the world, with only herself and The Captain alive to experience what was the come.

Unsure initially of where to sit, Alison settled on the usual sofa in an uncomfortable formality. After a moment’s hesitation, the Captain sat beside her in a tense silence. His knuckles were white with strain as he gripped tightly to his swagger stick.

“Listen…Captain,” Alison said lowly as she opened her laptop and switched it on. She threw him a nervous glance as she continued, “Whatever we find…” her voice trailed off. She had no idea how to finish the sentence.

“He’s likely sick, or out of the country,” the Captain filled the silence in resolution, “I just have to put my mind at rest,” 

Alison nodded solemnly and turned to her laptop as the home screen blinked to life, “I need to know his name so I can find him online. Probably the place he lives, maybe his rank too,” 

“His name is Peter Montgomery,” the Captain said softly, as though being tender with the name as he spoke, “He lives in Canterbury. Served as a Lieutenant in the war,”

“Ok,” Alison breathed, clicking onto her browser and typing the words _‘Lieutenant Peter Montgomery Canterbury’_ Into the Google search bar. She paused over the ‘Search’ button, her heart in her throat. 

“Are you sure you want to know?” she asked a final time.

The Captain looked to her, setting his jaw, “Yes,” he said. 

Before she could anguish over the idea any longer, she clicked to search and held her breath as multiple links appeared on the page. 

Her eyes flickered over the screen, so anxious she was barely reading what they were saying. The first few links were Facebook and LinkedIn pages, pointless to her and The Captain. 

It was the fourth link down that she had been looking for. 

_WORLD WAR II VETERAN, 108 YEARS, DIES AT HOME IN CANTERBURY_

Alison let out a low exhalation of breath, hoping that Captain could not hear the shaking in it. “We don’t know if it’s him,” she said quietly, clicking on the link and not daring to look at the Captain’s face.

An article from the Canterbury Herald appeared on screen, the same headline plastered across the top, accompanied by a picture of an elderly man underneath. He was tall and stooped slightly, with a white dusting of hair on his head and wrinkles patterned across his face. Julian had been right; he really did look old- the oldest man Alison had ever seen for sure. 

And yet, he had the eyes of a young man, bright and sparkling behind his thick glasses. His hand was buried in the fur of a golden retriever, sat loyally by his armchair.

By her side, the Captain made an inadvertent noise of shock at the image, a broken gasp that caught in his throat. 

Fuck.

_No._

Alison breathed shallowly against the dryness in her windpipe, eyes fixated desperately to the article as though it might change with her sheer will. Hoping against all odds the headline and photograph could be incorrect, she began to scroll down, reading the article in a low voice. 

_“One of the oldest World War II veterans, Lieutenant Peter Montgomery, has died peacefully at his home in Adisham, Canterbury at the age of 108. _

_A strong LGBTQ+ advocate and pillar of the community, his niece Angeline has stated that Montgomery died peacefully in his sleep of suspected heart failure,” _

Alison’s voice wavered and near gave out at the confirmation. She swallowed painfully and continued to read.

_“Montgomery volunteered for the army in 1939, rising to the rank of Lieutenant in the Forty Seventh Infantry, stationed in Surrey. He fought throughout the entirety of the war, including the Battle of Dunkirk and Stalingrad. _

_When interviewed in 2011 for his 100th birthday, Montgomery told the Herald that he didn’t like to think about this time of his life, stating “The only saving graces were the men and women I met along the way. But even then, they rarely survived more than a year or so,”_

_After the war Montgomery was known for championing LGBTQ+ rights, a dangerous move during the time period. A gay man himself, Montgomery was instrumental in the publication of the Wolfenden report and was one of the founding members of the CHE – the UK’s first gay activist group. _

_Montgomery credited the community around him for his long life, saying “Once the war ended, I really felt my purpose was to ensure the equal rights of the LGBT men and women around me. The discrimination we experienced then, and still today, is something I want to help resolve before my time is up,”_

_Though Montgomery was a spotlighted figure during the legalisation of same-sex marriage in 2014, he himself did not settle with a long-term partner, and remained unmarried for the entirety of his life. He is survived by nieces and nephews across three generations of the family, and his beloved dog, Elton,”_

The final word lingered in the air as Alison finished the article, leaving the pair in a lonely silence. 

“When was this published?” The Captain asked hoarsely, his voice barely audible. Alison couldn’t bear to look at him. 

“18th of September 2018,” she read helplessly from the note at the bottom of the page.

There was a moment of anguished silence before The Captain spoke again, his voice thick and scarcely more than a whisper, “Seven months,” he said in despair, “I thought I would feel it. I thought I would _know,”_

Pure grief permeated his tone. Alison closed her laptop in silence and steeled herself to face the stricken man.

“Captain,” she said, her voice heavy, “I’m so sorry,” 

The Captain’s face was an ashen white, eyes glazed as though he hadn’t heard a word she had said. He shook his head numbly, “It can’t be true,” he breathed, “I would have known,” 

“If there is anything I can do-” Alison said pleaded, aching to put a hand on his shoulder – give him a comforting hug – Christ, anything.

“No- no,” The Captain tripped over his words as he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. His body was shaking with a stricken adrenaline, chest heaving in an oncoming panic, 

“There’s nothing you can do,” he stammered, “I- Thank you for looking,”

Alison put her laptop to one side and stood, raising her hands as though to reach out and reassure him, “Captain-“

The Captain started, jerking away from her and towards the door, “I’d just like to be alone, thank you,” he uttered, voice audibly shaking, “I- I shall see you tomorrow,”

At that, he strode towards the door and through, leaving Alison staring after him in a numb shock.

Her breathing was loud in the silence, short and shallow as she resisted against the lump in her throat. 

She knew exactly how he was feeling. The loneliness, the emptiness in his gut at the realisation someone he loved was permanently gone. The knowledge that there would be nothing anybody could do to fix it. 

Alison sagged back into the sofa, placing a shaking hand on the arm to steady herself. Hot, burning empathy tightened across her chest at The Captain’s tragedy. It was too familiar a situation, too painful a memory, too many feelings at once for her to handle alone. 

_Sorry Alison dear, they left hours ago. _

_You’re 18 Al, don’t freak out, they’ll be fine._

_Are you Miss Alison Button? I’m PC Johnson, this is PC Owens. _

_Is there anyone else that you can stay with, love?_

_Anyone at all?_

Her throat constricting and eyes burning, she pressed a hand to her mouth in grief. And in the vast emptiness of the Button household, Alison began to spiral once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen...Alison had to be an orphan to get the house. My hand was forced.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed - kudos, comment, etc - YOU KNOW THE DRILL xxxx

**Author's Note:**

> I've got the rest of this story planned out pretty nicely, so it shouldn't be too long for an update.
> 
> Comment, kudos, give me your love.


End file.
